


Impeccable Taste

by entanglednow



Category: Inception
Genre: M/M, Shower Sex, Snark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-03
Updated: 2010-09-03
Packaged: 2017-10-14 12:34:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/149280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/entanglednow/pseuds/entanglednow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes Arthur wishes for something a little more predictable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Impeccable Taste

  
The water in the shower is the same temperature it always is, the same pressure. It's familiar and it's expected. What isn't expected is the indulgent slide and catch of hands round his waist.

It feels far too possessive for Arthur's tastes.

He tenses, braces himself to hurt someone.

"Did you think I was someone else?" Eames purrs in his ear.

Arthur relaxes, slowly, almost unwilling.

Fingers push up under the wet hair at the back of his neck, slide together and grip the smooth strands, using them to tip his head back.

"Or were you _hoping_ I was someone else?"

Arthur's almost certain that Eames is faking that heavy layer of hurt.

"Get on with it," he says. It comes out clipped, through his teeth. Because he knows well enough why Eames is here.

But if anything the lazy movement of fingers on his waist is slower than before.

"Patience is a virtue, darling."

There's a kiss against the wet skin of his neck and he shuts his eyes, tips his head into the water so he can't see.

He makes a noise when Eames' drifting fingers finally press into him, one steady push that's not hard enough to be greedy, not deep enough to be what he wants.

"Eames," he bites out, and it always feels like he's demanding, like it's never enough. Like Eames will never give him what he wants, until he makes him, until he proves that he really wants it. Eames cuts through his restraint, circumvents it, and Arthur is not even sure why. Why he's allowed, why it's so easy for him. Perhaps he resents it a little.

But he gets what he asks for, he gets a slow but endless push, all the way inside. Something much deeper and more aggressive that he shivers under, satisfied, for now.

Sometimes Arthur wishes for something a little more predictable.

The water is warm against his face but the tiled wall is cold and it's a contradiction, a perfect contradiction. A mirror image of this.

He spreads his legs and lets the slow drag-push of Eames' fingers wind his need up tighter, interest turning into a coil of heat, fingers spread through the water running down the wall. He's breathing into the tiles, making noises that he knows aren't loud enough to be heard over the shower. Noises he can keep.

He growls protest when he's suddenly left empty, when hands catch his waist and turn him, water rushing against the side of his face.

"Look at me," Eames says, and there's not an ounce of amusement in the words.

Arthur opens his eyes, finds Eames looking back at him. Water curls off his eyelashes, and the curve of his mouth. His hair is a wave of wet strands. He looks clean and soft and Arthur can't help the sudden, indulgent urge to reach out and catch his waist, pull him close.

Eames doesn't resist, far from it he presses and pushes and _takes._

The wall is cold against Arthur's back, too hard against the curve of his spine, water lashes his jaw and throat, broken into splashes when Eames tips his head, makes the kiss deep, makes it so many things.

When he pulls away Arthur fights not to follow, wins, just barely.

"Do you trust me?" Eames says smoothly.

"No," Arthur says, all quiet suspicion and contrariness.

But Eames just laughs like he mistakes it for a yes, laughs and digs his fingers into Arthur's thighs and lifts.

Arthur hisses and catches at Eames shoulder, hissing swearwords, the wet slide of skin becomes a crush and then only one of his feet is against the wall, heel sliding on the tiles. The other is pulled up and caught round Eames solid waist. Arthur's frowning complaint at the reckless dangerous, ridiculousness of it all. And he's a breath away from telling the other man to put him the fuck down.

Then the cold of the wall is against his back and his hips are tilted just right.

He's opened in one hard slide. He's not prepared for it, not ready for the rough burn of it. But he groans under it anyway, loud enough to be heard, one hand tight on the back of Eames neck and the other slapped against the tiles hard enough to sting.

It's awkward and slow and difficult, fucking perilous. The water's going cold against the curve of his arm and the side of his chest. But the angle of it - it's sharp and hard and perfect.

Arthur's hair falls, wet and wrecked into his eyes and he grunts and ignores it, concentrates instead on not slipping, forced to rely on Eames' strength to keep them both up.

"I like you like this, you're a mess and it's beautiful." Eames laughs under the words, crushes Arthur's response in a kiss that's more than half laugh itself.

There's no way to brace himself, no way to get what he wants, Arthur has to settle for digging his fingernails into Eames skin, biting the soft edge of his mouth and taking it.

The water is cold, Arthur can't get enough air into his lungs, and every inch of him is a frustrated ache of want.

Maybe predictable isn't to his taste after all.


End file.
